VI
The following afternoon the vicomtesse drove over to La Bonbonnière. The day was clear, serene, and balmy. The smiling landscape, bathed in crystalline light, was reassuringly modern, yet her heart beat hard, and her hand tightened convulsively as, at last, the cheerful façade of the villa came into view. The horses trotted briskly around the circle to the porte-cochère. Jeanne descended daintily—a frivolous mass of ruffles and chiffon, from which her high-bred face looked out with curiosity not unmixed with fear.
The carved doors stood open, disclosing the saffron walls and ormolu ornaments of the hallway. Preceded by the footman, she advanced, but paused on the last step, as a gleeful shriek rang out. A flying mass of blue and white, precipitated apparently from the ceiling, landed with a little thud. It was only Margot coming down-stairs after the world-old manner of adventurous childhood since banisters were invented. But it startled the footman so that he almost lost his balance, and rooted the vicomtesse where she stood, in unconcealed astonishment. There was a tradition—she dared not believe her eyes!
“Oh,” said Miss Wysong-Lord, not in the least abashed, “you must be Cousin Adelaide's friend, the Vicomtesse de Malèvique. We were expecting you.”
“Were you?” asked the visitor, with an uncontrollable impulse to laugh.
“Not just at this very moment, you know.” Margot's eyes twinkled merrily as she glanced at the banister. “Mother will be delighted to see you. She is playing tric-trac with the chaplain in the salon d'or. Do you know, I envy you this house. I love it! I've never been so happy before.”
“I'm glad,” murmured the vicomtesse, politely, though her brain was whirling.
A shrill bark almost under her feet awoke the echoes.
“It's only Reggie,” said her conductor, reassuringly, stooping to take in her arms a tiny spaniel that continued a sotto voce growl of protest as he kept a watchful eye upon the new-comer.
“Mon Dieu!” ejaculated the vicomtesse, “even the dog! The very same dog as the one in the portrait!”
“Have you had your dog's portrait painted?” queried Margot, with interest. “Mama is talking of having her canary done by some celebrated miniaturist, for a ring, you know, to be set under a table-cut diamond.”
The vicomtesse gasped. That ring! Only the night before she had turned it on her finger, with the retrospective sadness that the pale reflection of the joy and frivolity of the long-dead always brings! An uncanny chill crept over her. She had no time to think, however, for she found herself being effusively received by an elderly lady of fantastic aspect.
Mrs. Lord's formerly smooth and decorous white hair now arose in pompadours and curls, adorned by black-velvet bows. Her flowing gown of yellow and black brocade was cut low. On her still plump and graceful neck, diamonds glittered. Her slim hands were loaded with rings. From under the ruffles of an elaborate petticoat peeped tiny slippers with inordinately high, red-satin heels. Mrs. Lord had been calling upon her Paris tradesmen for many things.
Behind the little table, strewn with cards and pearl counters, stood the chaplain, bowing gallantly. As he was presented he came forward, raised the visitor's hand to his lips, and kissed it with a touch by no means clerical.
Near by, in a silver wine-cooler, awaited an open bottle of champagne; glasses and a dish of sugar-wafers were close at hand. Every one was affable, polite, very much at home. The atmosphere was delightful, strangely electric, prophetic of something pleasantly extraordinary.
“Ah,” exclaimed Mrs. Wysong-Lord, “it is a great pleasure to welcome the friend of our dear Adelaide.”
Her manner was cordial, her acceptance of intimacy immediate. Jeanne found herself made one of the household as a matter of course; welcomed as a relative, as one of the blood royal. It was all spontaneous and natural. The surprise and superstitious fear that had held her on entering were gone. Although at every step her suspicions were confirmed, she could no longer judge or observe coldly. She was under the spell, completely absorbed into the charmed circle—strangely happy, at ease, as if for the first time in her life she had found her true level, her appropriate surroundings, her foreordained companions. She spoke and moved as one in a dream, and could never quite recall how, a few moments after her presentation, she came to be playing whist for a franc a point, with the beautiful, azure-clothed, banister-sliding “devil of an angel” for partner.
It seemed quite a matter of course when, the cards proving unfavorable, the hostess, through her well-rouged lips, swore—swore aristocratically, charmingly, with perfectly good breeding and comprehensive thoroughness. The Rev. A. Z. looked up with an indulgent smile, and raised a gracefully protesting hand, but was sharply advised to refill his glass and attend to his lead. Neither did the vicomtesse find it surprising that Mrs. Lord's deal should provide the lady with a suspicious number of trumps, or that the card she turned should invariably be an honor: Each fact was part of the amazing condition of things. It was unavoidable, necessary. An hour later, when she took her departure, her gold mesh purse was very flat indeed—and that, too, was the inevitable conclusion.
When she found herself in her victoria once more she breathed a long sigh. In her startled eyes was still a vision, seen as she glanced over her shoulder while passing through the Boucher salon—the Rev. A. Z. Van Zeim chucking Miss Presby under the chin. She drove on awhirl with emotion. The occurrences that had seemed so much a matter of course lost their illusion. She panted with excitement.
As her horses pricked their ears, scented the home air and quickened their pace at the heraldic gates of Malèvique, she met d'Alencourt riding his English hunter. She signed to him to follow. Obediently he wheeled, cantering in silence by the little victoria and its fluffy occupant with the strangely grave and startled eyes.
“Come,” she said, breathlessly, as the carriage drew up before the château.
She led the way to the library, closed the door, and sank into a chair before the wide, hooded fireplace. D'Alencourt sat upon the table corner, and stared at the unlighted hearth in silence. The pause that followed lengthened to torture. At last, she found her voice, but hardly recognized it as her own, so metallic and sharp it had become.
“I have been to La Bonbonnière,” she said, looking him full in the eyes.
He nodded.
“Yes, I saw it in your face,” he answered. “And you think?”
“I don't think—I know.”
“But you see, it isn't possible—?” His tone was a question.
“I know it isn't. I know it can't be, that we are mad! But it's so, nevertheless, in spite of fact and science and the laws of nature! And you recognize that, too, Geoffrey. You and I have studied the past; it belongs to both our houses—we know the intimate details that are proof incontestable. There's no doubt. But what is it? What can it be?”
He shook his head.
“I can't answer that. But whatever and whoever she is, I love her with all there is in me. I may laugh and jest about it—I may talk as I did yesterday with Montalou—but it has gone deep, deeper than I believed possible. You can tell me, as I've told myself, that I'm loving what isn't really there; a mirage, if you will—I love it just the same!”
She rose, nervously.
“I was afraid it would be so,” she said, “but perhaps it isn't you—the real you—that is love-mad. It may be that part of your blood and brain that belongs to the Duc Alexandre, or it may be the nameless power that, in this instance, seems to control us all. While I was with them this afternoon I, too, became a part of their world—the—there is only the German word of Zauberei that seems to describe it. But, Geoffrey, what—what are we to do?”
D'Alencourt's face hardened.
“I am going to marry her, dead or alive, in spite of everything in heaven or earth or the powers beneath! If it's my ancestor who speaks, then I am all the Duc Alexandre, and no more Geoffrey! For I tell you, there is not an atom of me that does not love her beyond expression!”
“You are bewitched!” she cried, coming close.
“If you like. But isn't all love enchantment? Doesn't every one, when he loves, adore a phantom? Don't we all pursue a rainbow of the senses? Is my case any more impossible than a million others?”
“It is! It is!' she cried. “You must fight it down! We must save them! We must get them away! They must leave at once!”
“If you threaten that, I will proceed at once to carry her off, if I have to kidnap her. Her mother is my ally. I have already approached her. I think—I hope—Margot loves me. My only fear is—that the past will repeat itself!”
“But you mustn't do this thing. Perhaps you don't really love her. Wait till you know her elsewhere. After she leaves here, follow her to Paris—to America—anywhere, and learn what the real, the true Margot is. Don't be deceived. See, read these.” She hastily opened a box upon the table, and thrust into his hands the yellowed letters over which she had pored on the previous evening. “Read, read!” she implored. “You, who know them so well—every word carries conviction not to be withstood.”
With shaking fingers he smoothed the limp papers, worn thin in the crease of their foldings. He read on, his face growing more drawn and white every moment.
She watched him with painful sympathy, tearing absently at the laces of her sleeves. The minutes dragged by in quivering suspense. One by one, he read the faded pages. As he replaced the last in its faintly perfumed case, he looked up, and met her agonized eyes with a level gaze of determination.
“I know,” he said. “It makes no possible difference.”
“Look!” she cried, and held before him the smiling portrait of the girl with the spaniel.
“I know,” he said again. From an inner pocket he drew an oval miniature. The same mocking face, instinct with life, the very soul of merriment and passion, looked up from the ivory.
“This was the picture she gave the Duc Alexandre,” he said, sadly, as he laid the trinket in Jeanne's trembling hand. “Her name and his are on the case. You see, you can't tell me anything I don't know, or guess. And it can't be helped—I'm past cure.”
Jeanne's lips trembled.
“Here,” she said, slowly, “take it back. I must think this out, and, I tell you frankly, I am frightened.”
“Are we the only ones to guess this riddle?” she asked, after a moment's silence.
“I think so,” he said. “You and I, only, know the whole story; you and I, alone, are fools enough to be convinced by what can't possibly be. So, here we are, a pair of dreamers—ripe for investigation by the medical faculty as to our ability to sign a document, and, I very much fear, unable to pass the examination.” He walked about the room, his head bent, his hands behind him, for the moment lost in reverie.
“Well,” he said, pulling himself together and shaking his broad shoulders, “this is the first time I have permitted the serious side of the affair to stand before me clearly. I've treated everything humorously and gone my way cheerfully. I shall return to the charge with the same spirit, but with added determination. I'm sorry to distress you, Jeanne, but I have always paid you the compliment of absolute frankness, and I will now. To-morrow night I shall force the issue. I will have the matter settled one way or the other. Even that delay worries me. I would take the field at once, but my mother comes to Charteries to-night, and I must prepare her for the step I am to take.”
“I suppose,” said Jeanne, “she has heard the gossip and of your attentions, and has come down on that account.”
“Yes, undoubtedly. Her letter intimated as much, and, as you may imagine,” he smiled, wanly, “she is not pleased—she never will understand, and I sha'n't explain.”
“Will nothing bring you to your senses?”
“Nothing.”
“You would better put this away.”
He took the portrait from the table and gazed at it, fascinated. Jeanne watched him in silence.
Looking up from his contemplation, he said: “The first time I saw her was the night she came. Montalou had been raving about her all through dinner. My curiosity was aroused, but it wasn't that alone that made me find an excuse to slip away from him, and scramble across the park in the treacherous moonlight, hiding, like a poacher, behind the hedges till I stood among the roses of La Bonbonnière. It was the charm working then—it holds me now. I didn't know what I wanted, I did not know what I expected to see—until she opened her window. She looked out, leaning on the marble ledge, her hands folded under her chin. There was a pink light behind her that made a crescent of rose on her cheek. The rest of her face was in the white moonlight. Jeanne, I thought I should never be able to move or speak! Then she began to sing 'Belle Isambour'! It seemed that my heart would break, and with that song came something. It was not suspicion then, much less conviction, but a dim, struggling, soul-realization of the miracle. I sang the second verse, very softly. She paused, and listened, as if she had half expected the answer, then turned away and drew the curtain. That was how first I saw her. And from that hour I have been hers, body and spirit! Kismet!”
Jeanne took the portrait once more, and studied it, as though hoping to find some dissimilarity from the living counterpart. But the painter had been faithful to his task. Her voice sank to a whisper. “How strangely that old song seems to run through all this tragic comedy:
“Mallade et morte m'y feray,
Porter en terre m'y lairray,
Pourtant morte je ne seray”
“Ah, no, she is not dead, thank God!” said d'Alencourt. “Though they buried her deep under an alien soil a hundred years ago—she had to come back to life, to France, and love!”
“No, no,” the vicomtesse shook her head with energy. “It isn't she! It is the influence that lives here—in La Bonbonnière. When they leave, it will lose its control over them. They will be what they were before. It is not the dead come back—it is their influence, their aura, their Karma, that has never died! I feel it.”
“Perhaps we are both right, but either way,” said d'Alencourt, “I love her!”